The Storybrooke Breakfast Crew
by onceuponatimetime
Summary: Regina, Emma, Mary Margaret, Ruby, David, Robin, Killian and Archie must suffer through a Saturday detention with their stern HS principal Reul. How will The Queen Bee Regina, The Brainiac Archie, The Jock Robin, The Outcast Emma, The Rebel Mary Margaret, The Class Clown David, The Goth Kid Killian, and The Hot Chick Ruby survive being in one room with each other for 9 hours?
1. Prologue: Their Detention Essay

_**A/N** : This in an AU, non-canon, high school Once Upon A Time homage to The Breakfast Club. Magic doesn't exist, the setting is modern, and the main characters are ages 17-18. Multiple ships but has Established Swan Queen. Slight OOC-ness as this fanfic depicts characters non-canon teen years. Rated T with trigger warnings for mentions of: panic attacks, cutting, abuse, depressive thoughts, bullying, drug & alcohol use, sexual references and language._

 _The prologue & first eight chapters focus on each student as they arrive to school for detention, but characters may appear in another character's arrival chapter due to a pre-existing association. After those chapters, the story dives right into their detention day unfolding with all the high school drama, tragedy and comedy._

 _No copyright infringement intended. I plan to update this multi-chapter story on Saturdays (= their detention day, ha)._

 _I welcome all comments, reviews, and thoughts. Talk to me!_

 _Thank you for reading!_

* * *

 **PROLOGUE: THEIR DETENTION ESSAY**

 _From the desks of Archibald Hopper, Ruby Lucas, Emma Swan, Robin Hood, Mary Margaret Blanchard, Killian Jones, David Nolan & Regina Mills…_

As dictated by Archibald Hopper

Saturday October 10th, 4:15 PM

Dear Principal Reul Ghorm:

You forced the eight of us to sacrifice an entire Saturday in detention that we desperately wanted to spend:

…LARPing near the forest with my Cosplay Meetup group…

…Hammering out the chorus to my song 'Howling In The Wind'…

…Sleeping until dinner…

…Practicing these sick ass take down moves I saw at an invitational match last Friday…

…Passing out flyers to Monday's student rally to save Belle's Books from closing…

…Fishing off the pier while watching the tugboats and freighters sail by…

…Checking out funny Vines and eating buttered toast before work at the animal shelter…

…Chilling with my squad at Starbucks because Apple Spice lattes bitches #SquadGoalsQueen #EvilRegals...

But, your decision to reprimand us by doling out Saturday detentions is understandable. We deserved to be denied the pursuit of our preferred activities for one day. Each of us did something inexcusable to get assigned detention. We recognize our culpability and apologize for creating the negative situations that were rightly addressed with our detention sentences.

However, forcing each of us to write an essay informing you of who we think we are is utterly asinine and profoundly condescending. What's the point when all you'll ever do from your glided principal's chair is judge us in the most convenient, artificial and limited terms?

Despite being our principal for almost four years, you continue to see us as a twitchy nerd, a crass sexpot, a volatile outcast, a bully super-jock, an annoying revolutionist, a creepy goth, an insecure class clown, and a spoiled prom queen.

In your defense, many people in positions of authority would consider your judgments and classifications of us as wholly justified and sufficiently accurate.

After all, that's exactly how we saw each other this morning when we arrived by 7:15 AM to our dusty and hot detention dungeon cell otherwise known as your illustrious high school's library.

But, in our defense, we were students serving detention. We obviously didn't make good judgments in the immediate past.

And we clearly didn't know any better before being forced together this morning...

* * *

 _ **To Be Continued...**_

 ** _Please share your thoughts and suggestions in comments/reviews._**

 ** _Your feedback helps me with my writing and gives readers eye candy! : )_**


	2. Archie Hopper

**ARCHIE HOPPER**

"We'll discuss everything when you return home this evening," his mother tells him, pushing back his unruly ginger curls with a tentative swoop of her clammy fingers across his forehead. "Your father and I know this is not the real you, Archie. We understand."

 _They don't understand_. Archie's stomach knots around his mother's words. He recoils from her attention. Bats her hand away from his warm face. Adjusts his new glasses to rest painfully high up his nose bridge.

His mother trains her eyes back on the road. Pumps the gas pedal of her brown Toyota Camry more determinedly. Hums a nervous and confused tune because she never turns on the radio. Archie looks terribly unwell.

 _Why didn't I sit in the backseat with Pongo?_

"Sure," he concedes to her. It's obvious to Archie - to anybody who knows his family - that his detention is confounding, maddening, and unacceptable to his parents.

(And who doesn't know his family? His parents are famous for having the worst local business commercials on TV and the internet for their sporting goods store: Hopper's Hoops N Sports Things. The Hoppers live in perpetual infamy due to teens around the world remixing and auto-tuning those abysmally awful commercials into YouTube and Vine compilations titled "Hoppers Bloopers").

Besides, his father hasn't spoken to him since dinner last night when his mother mentioned the troubling email she received from her best friend since third grade, his principal Reul Ghorm - who didn't bother to trust he'd show up without getting his mother involved. Her blasted email summoning him to detention hall at school today, Saturday of all days, _his LARPing day_ , transformed that dinner into a tennis match of hurled verbal accusations and recriminations until Archie reminded his parents that his coveted 4.0 grade point average wouldn't maintain its lofty heights if he didn't hit the books and finish his homework asap and behind his locked bedroom door.

Yes, class valedictorian and Saturday detention recipient. He imagines Reul's detention - he's known her for as long as he could walk - will consist of a _shit-tastic_ amount of boring busywork disguised as beneficial character development. A culling of undesirable students and the grinding of them into indentured servitude underneath her prudish taskmaster's whip.

Reul has yet to meet a banal task she didn't prefer to make mandatory for as many unfortunate students as possible over the course of a school year. He'll probably be forced to scrub a bathroom sink with a toothbrush for starters and then peel gum off walls using a flimsy index card. So long as it's tedious and torturous it will suit Reul's vision of herself: master administrator par excellence.

The icing on Archie's crappy cake slice: the insufferable Reul was the world's worst godparent, and her disproportionate reaction to her godson's Archie's 'incident,' as she termed it in her email, is just another notch in Archie's belt of reasons to distance himself from everyone he has ever known once he graduates from Storybrooke High School.

Archie leans his head against the hot glass window of his mother's car; it singes his cheek for a moment. His mother opts to keep her car's air-con system on its first setting which basically blows slightly less hot than outdoor air around the car and nothing that is ever remotely cooled. Every careful turn of her steering wheel assaults him somehow; makes his stomach churn and his neck burn.

Fire flicks behind his eyes as he contemplates suffering through a wasted Saturday after spending all week working on his giant cricket outfit for the 1st Annual Galactic Bug Wars LARPing event. The inaugural event he helped spearhead. _That he will now miss entirely_.

His LARPing obsession was another thing his parents didn't understand. Didn't want to understand. Didn't approve. Not once do they inquire about the mechanics, the tech, the creativity that fuels his hobby although Archie talks incessantly about it. But, his parents can never stomach Archie telling people he had tyrannical parental units who didn't allow him to live up to his nerdy potential. Can't cut into those precious lacrosse stick and jockstrap sales. So they don't force him to stop.

Maybe that's a great thing. A happy ending in the making. A few more months and Archie will cart himself off to college. They will turn his room into a home office. No evidence of him ever living in Storybrooke. He's not planing on coming back. Definitely not for something as banal as a high school class reunion party. He's never invited to parties now, why start caring when he's miles away and safe from everything Storybrooke High related.

As his mother's car rounds a corner and coasts at 23 mph down his high school's street, Storybrooke Lane, she flashes Archie her rendition of a reassuring smile, the edges of her mouth quiver and question her resolve. She resembles a barbie doll with its face being smooshed inward by an overly excited drooling toddler. He must hand it to her, she's trying. That's one step further than his father ever takes.

"We hope this won't become a pattern, Archie," she coughs into a balled hand, as if to scare the notion into him, but he knows it's the tell-tale sign that she's secretly ventured back to smoking, she prattles on, "These things are filed into your school record. It's excusable in elementary school, not your senior year of high school."

The first time Archie received detention was fourth grade. He ate box of non-toxic chalk on a dare. Hardly a maximum security prison level offence. More a sign of… it wasn't malnutrition despite his skinny and jittery frame. He gives off the first impression of being a precariously assembled Jenga tower where the attempted removal of any one block, despite how sturdy it looks, will send the whole structure crashing to the ground in a heartbeat. He is a bundle of unsettled nerves.

"Uh…" is all he manages to say in reply. Clearly irks his mother; she coughs loudly.

She drives past the school's student parking lot. Pre-paid assigned parking slots. On weekdays filled with all the student cars not belonging to Archie. He doesn't own a car. His father didn't win the bid to supply the local area schools with sporting goods, so it's Archie's feet on the pavement or his mom's antiquated wheels.

No way in hell does Archie ride the school bus. An ambling zombie has a greater chance of surviving a kill-shot to the head at point blank range than Archie does escaping the notice of some neanderthal bully or bitch-face girl hell-bent on fertilizing his physical and emotional pain for their amusement.

"College recruiters might ask if you've had disciplinary actions like detentions or worse leveled against you and expect you to deftly explain why you've had one. They will not deem "uh" a suitably clarifying answer."

Archie sighs. It's always a matter of time before his mother's true colors shine through her 'embarrassing retro mom kit' ensemble of frosted denim shorts, frilly Hawaiian pattern blouse and fanny pack. A living and breathing 1980s K-Mart ad.

 _How long has she been dying to voice that opinion? Since last night's dinner?_

Archie spots Storybrooke High School's campus, a collection of five buildings. Only one matters today, the Main Hall. Just the sight of the ivy-choked brick of the Main Hall brings his conscious to a boil. He surmises it's a manifestation of the disappointment he harbors toward himself for incurring Reul's wrath and missing out on the one thing that brings him actual joy in life.

But mostly he's just _angry_. So angry lately and for months now. Terribly angry this exact second; he can't accurately pinpoint why he is steadily clamoring to self-destruct.

Or why he is so insistent on not being the 'real Archibald Hopper' anymore. _Hoppers don't do therapy_.

Too late now to contemplate the reasons. He did what he did that resulted in detention and marred his school record and whatever else providence piles upon his frail shoulders, and the car is almost at the curb directly in front of his school's main entrance.

"I know. I'm sorry," he offers with downcast eyes. If she looks him in his cloudy blue eyes or touches his unsteady arm in a show of support, he will fling himself in front of an oncoming car. Anything to escape her false solidarity. Parents are some of the most duplicitous people on the planet. His biological precursors are no exception.

She doesn't. He sighs his relief.

What seemed like a great idea three days ago under the influence of two Heineken beers - his first time drinking but probably not his last - morphs into a death sentence verdict as his mom's car pulls closer to SHS's main quad. And especially when he spots that asshole Robin Hood on the main quad grounds executing illegal wrestling moves on one of his meat-head minions, the massive human freight train inappropriately and inexplicably nicknamed Little John.

 _What are those two morons doing here?_

There aren't any wrestling matches or tournaments scheduled for today at their school. There's one at 1:35 PM across town at West Storybrooke High. Archie knows for certain, he mapped out the scheduling for his school's wrestling team down to every minute of their end of season celebratory cookout. He does the planning and scheduling for all the school's major sports teams. Seems he is the only kid in the entire school who bothered to learn MS Office and who uses his laptop for anything other than editing ridiculous memes and social media videos.

Hopefully, he won't see Robin beyond this cursory glance.

Archie peeks at his watch. 6:50 AM. Too early for weekend detention to commence. Too late to feign a convincing stomach illness to skip it.

The high school's welcome sign greets his mom's car - the car a wonderfully juvenile Robin affectionately termed "y'alls shitmobile" - as she parks as close to the main doors of the school as humanly possible. _It's not like I'm already the school's biggest dork or anything_. The school's ostentatious banner hanging over the entrance might as well read: "Home of Archie Hopper's Daily Ass Beatings" instead of its venerable motto "Home of the Berserkers."

"Call if you need us, Archie," she suggests under the cover of a frail smile.

"It's detention not a sleepover," he counters, rubbing a healed scar near his elbow covered by his long sleeved green polo shirt. It's hotter than the devil's butt crack outside but he sports jeans and a long sleeved shirt.

His mom eyes his movements, counting every pass he makes with his fingers. "Use the time wisely. Maybe finish your essay to Yale?" She says it like a suggestion; means it as a demand. All Archie hears is: _Why can't you do better?_

"Again, detention. I gotta do whatever your best friend Reul makes me do," he retorts in a curt voice that reminds him of his father. The father not in the goofy commercials. The one who doesn't smile anymore. Archie's stomach lurches.

Pongo stirs awake and barks. Licks Archie's hand. Archie ignores him. It kills Archie not to pet his dearest friend. He's not doing anything that is _himself_ lately. Strolling into school on a Saturday not for a debate club meeting but for detention simply heralds that things will not improve soon. _Why can't I breathe?_

"Oh, Archie, we-"

He cuts her off with a loud swing of the passenger side door creaking open, and slinks out her car in a huff. So angrily and so quickly, he trips on the curb. Instinctively juts his hands out to break the impact of a fall. Luckily, he gains his footing before face-planting on the unfriendly concrete.

It's not the first time he's tripped getting out of a car, or a bus, or an anything with a door perched near an incline or a drop. Good thing he's wearing those jeans and long sleeved shirt. Any fresh cuts and scrapes will not be visible on his arms and legs. Experience teaches you practical ways to hide… imperfections. Well _ways_ , practical or not.

Archie doesn't look back at his mother. Not because he can't stomach the expression on his mother's face; he knows she watches him bridge the distance between her car and his school's entrance with the twin smothering demons of worry and concern brewing in her eyes. Her reaction is simply regulated to the past. She's washed away by the tempestuous thoughts thunder-storming his mind.

By the time he's halfway to the school's steps, she's peeled off into the barely-there traffic. Presumably jetting off to their sporting goods store to make sure the new hire doesn't short change his register again. Incompetence or thievery, either way the kid goes the way of the dodo if it happens again, and free labor son Archie covers the kid's shifts until dad hires a replacement.

Archie picks up his pace, bee-lining toward the school's front door steps faster than a mouse stuck in a maze who finally spots a mound of cheese.

Because Robin glowers at Archie, darts toward him, and aims a fist directly at Archie's once ticked off but now completely apprehensive face.

Robin is a creature of habit. The menace wrapped in his squarely built frame did not lose its musculature or ferocity after ten years of repeated use despite how much and how often Archie's lanky form wishes it did. Robin always hits the ground shooting when he spots a target. Never misses. Bullying comes more natural to the troglodyte than breathing.

He hates Archie's guts. No rhyme or reason to the hatred. Just fact.

"Holy shit, Ginger Spice," Robin teases, as he weighs the cost of punching Archie in the face, thinks better of it, and course corrects to violently punch Archie's right shoulder, the pain immediate, pronounced, and surging in intensity. Archie stifles a cry, tears pelt his face, and he nearly sinks to knees.

"Are your mom jeans on fucking purpose?" Robin laughs. It's easy to damage Archie.

So easy, in fact, the most tragic thing happens next and it comes as no surprise to Archie when it does. It's automatic and consistent and worse than detention.

A glorious river of urea-filled piss shoots from his treacherous urethra. Streams down the center of his jeans, pools at crotch level. To the delight of Robin and his now very merry man flunky Little John.

"Bruh, he's pissing his mom jeans!" Little John yips excitedly, as if making some outmatched, uniquely defenseless nerd piss himself is the direct equivalent of striking a billion-dollar untapped reservoir of oil. Because it is to dipshit bullies.

"You dicknut pisspot," Robin shouts, his words soaring from his mouth rudely and grossly like spitting a glob of chewing tobacco sludge. Egged on by Little John's snickers, Robin pushes Archie to seal the humiliation deal.

An icy menace cuts across Archie's face. But he won't act on it. Can't win any battle. Not a real one. Robin's words add coarse Himalayan sea salt to his humiliation wound. It's only the three of them in front of the school, but it feels like the laughter of a million people cocoons him when Robin and Little John preen so loudly Archie's ears heat and glow red hot.

Soaked in his tears and his piss and his anger and his pain, his entire body going haywire, his whole mind going supernova, Archie guns up the school's front steps and shots through the doors. A force to be reckoned with if only he could fight.

The spare clothes in his first floor locker - a constantly renewed supply - are more precious to him than life itself.

* * *

 _Next Up: Ruby Lucas then Emma Swan_

 ** _Please share your thoughts and suggestions in comments/reviews._**

 ** _Your feedback helps me with my writing and gives readers eye candy! : )_**


	3. Ruby Lucas

**RUBY LUCAS**

Ruby cups the stocky twenty-seven year old's testicles in her right hand through his jeans. Teases him with a light squeeze. Will not venture any further until he answers her question satisfactorily. She adores her questions and quizzes more than intercourse. The only problem: _guys never do_. Still, she's equipped with twenty minutes until show time to acclimate him to her brand of foreplay. Words mean the world to her. She writes her own lyrics to the tune of her tumultuous life.

"Tell me one thing you like about me," Ruby demands, her back leans against the hard and hot brick of Storybrooke High's natatorium. She bows into the heaving broad chest of her latest conquest. Rolls a cherry flavored piece of gum around her tongue. Thinks to herself that six hookups is long enough to test his mettle. To see if he can overcome his plethora of shortcomings. She is filled with well-founded doubts.

"And don't say my butt," she adds pointedly. Kisses her brown haired paramour on this left cheek, precariously close to the corners of his lips, and tightens her smothering grip around his head, elbows at his ears. Her hands coil into the back of his neck like twin boa constrictors. His lower half bucks. She surmises that he'll come in his boxers in a few minutes. "Or my eyes. Don't be a walking and talking cliche if you want me."

Most guys she dates… no _hooks-up_ with are cliches. Fun rides until they aren't.

She knows it makes her cliche. Easy for her to ignore until it isn't.

Right now it's a fun ride with implications that are easy to ignore. He coils one of her dangling fiery-red highlighted curls framing her lovely face around his index finger, admires with wide lustful eyes the volume of her loose and long chestnut tresses that mirror the voluptuousness of her body's curves on full display in tight black yoga pants, a red throwback tailored jersey - that squeezes her breasts so tightly it reminds him of an exploded biscuit roll package, he's said as much to her - and black heeled boots.

A slave to fashion, Ruby dresses to leave lasting impressions. Leaves a throbbing one in his pants. She squeezes his manhood harder. "I like…" she can practically see the words "butt" and "eyes" crowd his mind like NY Times Square billboard signs, he can't miss them but knows he should ignore the flashing lights, "I like your style. It's electric," he offers.

Ruby purrs, satisfaction flints across her green eyes; he's earned a prize, not her heart. She itches for his touch. A touch. Some sort of closeness. No _contact_. Her tongue expertly snakes its way past his lips, pillages his mouth of words and oxygen. His tongue insistent on claiming his air and language back from hers. A war of mouth flesh ensures; she wins. Giggles into his mouth. Steals back her gum.

He pushes his hand past the elastic hem of her yoga pants, dances his fingers into her thong. She's clean shaven for the most part, no puff muff, manicured. He presses their bodies against the prickly brick of the building.

"Watch the guitar," she admonishes. Strung over her shoulder with an red strap, her instrument is an extension of her body. It's never good to attach yourself to people, not in the long run, but you can trust the music. It allows you to be you. She hums in his ear. He growls.

"Who brings a guitar to D-hall?" He grouses in her ear. He will not win a Nobel Peace Prize, but his fingers border on legendary. Strumming her chords, hitting the right notes. She whines. He plays her body faster.

"I have a gig afterwards," she explains between moans and hiccups of breath. Detention is no biggie to her. Spends the time jotting down notes and the words to bring them to life. Even hopes to meet some new boys at this shindig from hell. Prefers a sausage fest and not taco party, although she will not rule out receiving attentions from another girl.

Still, past detentions were served under the ' _I don't care what you do today just do it away from me_ ' eye of their ex-gym teacher turned unpaid alcoholic beverages spokesperson, town drunk Leroy. Ruby laments scoring herself mandatory time with Reul. The woman is so uptight, Ruby wagers the only time a man willingly comes near her is when she visits her gynecologist for a pap smear test.

"What the hell did you do anyway to rack up D-Hall?" His other hand swims to her backside. Pinches it. She gasps. He relaxes his tango with her womanhood, switches to teasing her bikini line. "D-hall" must be what his generation calls detention in an attempt not to sound as old as they look.

"Move your fingers back to the promise land," she commands, lurching forward and resting her head on his shoulder. Celebrates the amount of trees and shrubbery that conceal their early morning debauchery with a smile. Her detention is her business, his business is her body. "And use small circles. Small circles are _good_."

"Like this?" He moves his fingers deftly. Heat lances across her abdomen, pools in the pit of her stomach and ignites the fires of her puckered bundles of nerves. She wants him to work faster. He complies with a fevered frenzy of up and downs, in and outs of his fingers. And those circles Ruby enjoys.

There is no better feeling, no more _aliveness_ than the moment when her lovers extract her strangest, freest, loudest moans. She loves the sound of her voice. It's the only thing she loves about herself. She knows her inner songbird's release and its delicious melody are near. Can feel and hear it drumming in the pit of her stomach. In the heat building between her legs. The intensity always catches her off guard. Steals her breath. Seizes her mind.

Wrecks her soul.

She grits her teeth. Her eyes probe the air for a pathway to his. His eyes are off in oblivion. Might as well be; he's not looking at her but at some nearby fir trees.

Suddenly, she doesn't want the release. Doesn't want to her body sing. Not with him. But, her body responds to his ministrations and not to her will. And it pains her when it happens despite her mental protest.

The moment is intense, she buckles at the knees, sharp pleasure bursts through her, fire in her veins, fanning across her thighs, hitching in her throat, raging through her body like an uncontrollable volcanic eruption, like an atomic explosion ricocheting through soul, leaving an ashen doppelganger in its wake. Releases as a mellifluous song note from her vocal chords: " _Oooooh_."

Buzzes in her mind as she rides the last of its wave to shore.

The dwindling sound echoing through the shrubbery, dying out has he muffles her voice with a hand over her mouth. A hand dripping with her scent. With her taste. She bites him with blunted teeth.

"Ah, no marks," he giggles, feigns a injury by dramatically clenching his hand.

She catches her breath. Steadies her knees. Pushes him off her. She does not cuddle. Does not dawdle. Straightens her pants and shirt.

He laughs. Considers her with a wink and a command: "My turn."

"We gotta stop. I gotta rock."

He's disappointed. She notices it in his slouch. In his curled lip.

"Just skip it," he demands. He reaches out and squeezes her in a tight hug.

She doesn't wiggle away. Wants to but doesn't. Her body always betrays her mind.

"Can't. It's better than-" His invasive tickling of her neck temporarily robs her of initiative and agency to speak.

"Being with me, sexy?" He asks, grinning mischievously.

His mouth seals his death warrant.

Men's mouths always break the spell when not clamping onto her crimson lips.

Ruby can't stomach his simplicity or idiocy. Older guys are suppose to bring something to the table besides girth and length. He doesn't even possess those attributes. She likes his eyes and his fingers. A shame. He's not going to last the day with her. Not in love with him, so it doesn't hurt. Not as much as it can. If she loves. She does not.

Boys and men always want her. She always wants them. But wanting is never enough. She bores too easily and they hardly ever impress. She doesn't do relationships. Not always by choice. A 'don't ask don't tell' mutually assured destruction pact. They don't ask her to be in a real relationship and she doesn't tell them she wants one, eventually.

 _What's the point when everyone will disappoint you?_

Her mother was right about that facet of life before she hit six feet of dirt. Ruby's five stepfathers were increasing abysmal as the selections paraded by her life in dodgy trailer park homes.

At least the last one before Ruby left for her grandmother's house in Storybrooke, Rick, brought her the guitar slung across her back. He could carry a tune too. Had a friendly, beautiful smile. Told Ruby that her beauty was her voice. That she should sing professionally and escape their trailer park. "Don't ever look back, little Red," he said as he taught her a complicated riff. Gave her that nickname.

No man has been as nice to her since.

"It's better than being here all day with back to back detention sentences. I can't miss my audition at five," she says, mustering up the energy to make a clean break for the front of the building. School is not Ruby's cup of tea; she has the aptitude for some of it, excels in her music and poetry classes, but her attention spans darts about faster than a five year old with ADHD at an amusement park after three rounds of cotton candy.

Music is the one constant in her life that's never let her down. Tonight's audition can launch her passion to the next level. Make her a regular performer at the Rabbit Hole. She'd better make today's punishment stick. Keep her mouth shut. Keep her eye on the prize. Not rack up any overtime. Her academic track record makes certain she won't be suited for any profession outside of music artist except for burger flipper at her grandmother's food truck.

"Come on, babe, let's get outta here," he says cupping her hand in his. Dragging her a few feet toward his Dodge Charger parked in the faculty lot.

She plants her feet firmly in the grass. She knows he wants to yank her away to his backseat. And she knows he knows she's not interested. Doesn't stop him or any of the others from trying. She usual caves.

"Meet me at the Rabbit Hole tonight. I get two songs for the audition."

He considers her visage for a moment. Her eyes aren't dancing in anticipation of his answer, more a cursory offer than an emotional request. But the frame of her body is always sensual even when her mood is not. She's beautiful and he can't let her go easily. She is young and there is much experience there. But reality is its own planner.

"No can do. Gotta pick up my girlfriend."

"Go away," Ruby demands, pulling her hand from his but his grip is firm. He readjusts and rubs her arm.

She adopts a petulant pout. _Why?_ She doesn't _want_ him want him. Never did.

"Come on, you know she's a rag. I told you that I'm dumping her for you soon," he coos, believing she'll eat up his lie as good as he goes down on her.

"Soon is neither a specific day of the week nor a definite time of the day," she says with enough acidity to dissolve a cow. She edges toward a clean break from his presence, pivoting her stance, moving most of her body away from him except her captured hand.

 _Who am I kidding? Always a break. Never a clean one_.

"Jesus McChrist. I don't harp about all the guys you date." Shows how much he pays attention. She never dates. Prefers rendezvous.

"Move your balls or lose them," Ruby says to his eyes. He looks her directly in hers. Seeing her for the first time quite possibly. She's serious and deadly and broken and malleable. "A woman only needs to say 'no' once."

"You're only seventeen." He nudges the two of them back to natatorium's outside wall. The ping-pop of a broken guitar string as her instrument mushes into the brick wall.

Something in her snaps more easily than the guitar string. She knees him with the kinetic force of a wrecking ball in his crotch and trudges defiantly toward the front of the school.

"Ow, you stupid slut!" He yells after her, doubling over and grabbing his crotch.

She sure knows how to pick winners.

Good thing she picks her self defense classes with more expertise.

She spins around while continuing to walk backwards toward her destination. "I don't know what's more pathetic: your unoriginality or your tiny balls!"

She cackles like a witch after casting a curse, considers him no further, and dips around the natatorium toward her high school's Main Hall.

Stops at the front steps of the Main Hall. Collects her breath. Smiles at her handiwork and then immediately frowns when she eyes the broken string on her guitar. "Crap."

Eyes her watch, it's 7:10. Five minutes to D-Day. "Crap."

She spits out her gum and catches an eyeful of her school's shirtless varsity boys cross country team as they hightail it by the school. A whole herd of sweat glistened athletes keeping themselves more fit than should be legally allowed and humanely possible. One of them waves at her. She salutes him and giggles. She doesn't recognize him, but she'll take another look at the rippling muscles of his back any day of the week.

Broken guitar aside, the day is not yet in total ruin. She can restring during detention.

And she already zeroes in on another hookup prospect. All black clothing covers his angular build from head to toe. Expertly coiffed hair, a bit on the spiky side near his temples. His eye makeup and fingernail art game rivals any supermodel's. So does his silver jewelry choices. He oozes rock star swagger mixed with a healthy disdain for authority and bourgeois people. He's her new type of crush as she watches him enter the school building, profiling him like an FBI agent.

She doesn't know his name but has seen him around school, lurking the halls; a sulky apparition unencumbered by social norms. Hopefully he's at school on a Saturday for the same reason she is: to pay restitution for some slight against school rules and regulations.

Ruby smirks. Cradles her guitar across her chest. Feels a crush song building to a chorus in the stadium of her mind.

Boys and men pop up like wild weeds. Always crowding out the things you want, but hard to ignore as they grow out of your control right in front of your face.

* * *

 _Next up: Emma Swan then Robin Hood_


	4. Emma Swan

**EMMA SWAN**

White iPhone 6 in hand, screen focused on a text message bubble, Emma's thumb hovers over the 'send' icon. Almost flicks it. She places the phone on her lap instead, and mentally makes the sign of the cross although she only believes in the things she can see.

The things she can touch.

The things she can _take._

Nothing else matters.

You learn and you live and you _survive_ if you have no illusions about life.

No niggling and unrelenting feelings derived from hope, faith, or trust to carry as burdens across her scarred back. To anchor her down to the ocean floor of life where she'll surely drown. To make her feel any emotion or entertain any idea she instinctively knows can never come to fruition.

Never be real.

But having a secret lover is dipping your toes into a puddle of hope in the least, and wallowing in an Olympic-sized pool of grand illusion at the most.

The irony of her current situation is not lost on her as she sits in her yellow Volkswagen Beetle, in a far corner of the student parking lot, packing a rainbow colored glass pipe with marijuana - she's no idiot despite all evidence to the contrary, present activity included. Her plight makes her chuckle. She sighs over the absurdity of it. Feels something taking root in the bleakness of her heart. Knows it's not love.

She's never felt love.

Never seen love.

Love is not real. It's the adult version of believing in the Tooth Fairy. Something to make the loss of a fundamental part of yourself to another person seem rewarding. A crutch. Emma prefers to stand on her own two feet.

So what's real to her is the faint scent of her lover's Bath and Body Works Country Apple body lotion lingering on her fingers as she wafts her hands under her nose. It makes her swoon. The very real prospect of losing herself in that scent as it mingles with the woodsy one from her primo bud stash once it's lit makes her smirk.

She pats down the last pinch of weed she can possibly fit into her pipe and gives herself a thumbs up. Uses one hand to tuck her long blonde locks behind her ears. Brings a Zippo lighter to the pipe. Sparks up. Takes a long hit.

Smiles like a Cheshire cat. Tiny coughs complete the pothead routine.

Emma's happy her latest harvest yielded enough for her to test drive this morning. And the next. Enough for the entire week, really. Almost laughs because her growing and selling knowledge is the only thing of value her current round of foster parents bestowed upon her in the year she's been with them. They say she's great at it. She's better than great, a natural.

 _Should I be proud?_

(Of course they take a cut of what's grown and of what's earned, but it's their house she's using as a base of operations. Taxes are expected and begrudgingly paid. She aged out the state system on her eighteenth birthday and won't be offered free room and board anywhere ever again.)

Emma's dubbed this gem batch - with the purple hairs, vibrant green color, tiny white sheen to some of hairs like snowflakes clinging to tree leaves - 'Evil Queen' because the high is so sensational it can't be a good thing and it's a real bitch to come down from because it lingers in the brain and rules your body until you fall asleep. Because it's laced with codeine.

It reminds Emma of someone who has the same effect on her - a presence that lingers on her skin. A presence that's laced with danger.

The school's resident Queen Bee, Regina Mills.

Regina should be her nemesis. Is her secret conquest.

 _How did I reel in Regina? Why does it even matter?_

Certainly helps that the Evil Queen variety of weed - which everyone at school calls EQ - sells the best at her school. Makes her school days worth not skipping when she can make $300 a week off the rich losers there. The ones with mommies and daddies who think they're buying Subway sandwiches and Starbucks coffees with the pocket change they give them every morning.

No, they're buying gas for her car, her dinners, her clothes. So she doesn't look as poor as she is when she must rely on a bad third party supply of ditch weed she can't push or has to spend the money on class materials like $250.00 class trips (if she wants to ski on the same trip as Regina. She does.)

They're buying snacks and toys for her six foster siblings. So they don't steal from one another. Don't accidentally tell their social worker they didn't eat any fruit this month. Then be spanked. Then not get any fruit next month.

And they're buying gifts for Regina. So she will want to see Emma again.

If Emma were a normal person, she would allow herself to grow accustomed to the hope, the faith, or the trust that should accompany being with someone she likes - the emotions pouring from those sources, all of their intensities and their unfamiliarity and their promises. She is anything but normal. Life made her... grow unnatural armor. From her own skin.

She knows the real danger is how easy it is to grow accustomed to anything or anyone. How easy it is to want to do so. So she never does.

Only regards her secret trysts with Regina as what the are: harmless _fun_.

And, dammit, she deserves that kind of fun. She's known very little of 'harmless' things.

Emma glances at her phone, presses 'send,' and plunges into the excitement of her secret relationship. _Relationship?_

 _No..._

 _Whatever._

It's the most free she's felt since jumping off the rooftops of boarded up abandoned homes as an eight year old with the little guys in the neighborhood she lived in the longest. Two years under one roof with the Coleman family who had two sons near her age and who were never as bad as her other foster families because everyone kept their hands off her things. Off her.

So an okay family, but they couldn't keep Emma. The father lost his job when the tire factory one town over closed shop, he moved out, and he left the mom with three kids. The child not hers was not worth the extra work when things became too hard for a single woman who didn't want to run a child mill like other foster parents and didn't want a new man to be saddled with raising a child that wasn't even hers let alone his child.

Emma couldn't fault her. The woman's survival instincts kicked in hard. Emma's common sense was always intact.

She never hoped for anything more than the two years she received.

Well, maybe it's never a bad thing to hope for good sex:

 **When will you make my heart race again? Today? Yes! Please?**

No Shakespearean sonnet. But Regina doesn't sneak away from her parent's mansion on 108 Mifflin Street, the ritziest street in the wealthiest suburb of Storybrooke, to be with Emma because she can string together more than five words.

Emma pockets her phone in her red leather jacket. Her phone and her jacket are the most expensive possessions she owns besides her car. All gifts of sorts, if you call five-finger discount runs gifting. She's not to blame if she benefits from somebody else palming the goods and giving them to her in exchange for her time or her weed. Everything has a price. She hasn't stolen anything... in a while.

It's too hot outside to lounge under the canopy of the bushes tangled in the fence near the athletic field close to where she's parked, even though it looks like an inviting spot, so it's still her car where she's smoking weed from the pipe she created at the Storybrooke Glass Works, a secret 'non-date' destination she took Regina to a month ago. Regina made an ashtray. The two of them work well together. Have synergy.

No radio blasts because Emma needs to hear the outdoors just in case a cop does roll up. But she hums in between tokes on the pipe. Turns off her air con system, the car's at a good temp and she wants the smoke from her lungs to hang in front of her face for a bit. To vacuum it back up if she wants. She does.

She's puffed like this almost every day before and after school since the 9th grade, started selling and growing this year. Toking up in her car is her calling card, no denying it.

 _Why should this Saturday be any different if she's forced to be at school?_

Her principal Reul Ghorm thought Emma was intimidated when she handed her the detention notice first thing Monday morning. Emma nodded her head solemnly as she grabbed the paper slip from Reul's long fingers (it's not weird that Emma notices a woman's fingers first. Always. Not that she imagines what Reul's fingers would feel like on her skin because, _ew_. It's easier to estimate as woman's age by how bony her fingers are; by how little or how much flesh surrounds them. Reul's around forty-five maybe? Emma doesn't know why she has this finger-examining quirk.)

Besides, Reul is a colossal idiot. Emma appeared solemn because she was coming down from a high in the principal's very own office. Right in front of her very clueless face.

Visine and perfume employed before you enter the school building and a large Red Bull can in hand as you walk the halls supplies the impression that you're buzzing off excessive amounts of caffeine. Add sunglasses if you really want to take it to douche levels. Emma stumbled out of Reul's office and laughed her ass off as she headed to the library to skip first hour German I in favor of her favorite activity, sleeping. She crumbled the note up and tossed it into the trash before her head hit a library table in one of the reading rooms with lockable doors.

All the notice meant: Emma knew exactly where she'd be sleeping for nine hours straight on a Saturday.

She doesn't opt to get 'lit' on school grounds often because being caught is a real threat and the consequence when you're eighteen is real jail. Cops don't patrol this parking lot - to her knowledge - because this is the good school in the good neighborhood where bad kids like Emma shouldn't exist, don't frequent and don't belong. The school where kids like Emma are boogeymen. The cautionary tale suburban moms tell their kids to keep them on a straight and narrow path - her life too far removed from the magic bubble of their lives to be anything more than an Aesop's Fable.

 _Look, kids, don't be like that loser blonde. Drug user and drug peddler. Only here because the district needed to meet a pity party quota. She's in Saturday detention like clockwork where she belongs. Another day in her sad, sad life._

No one's in the parking lot this early in the morning, 6:10 AM, except her anyway. She's only here more than an hour early for detention, in parking spot #232 that is not hers - her assigned spot #16 was donated to her by the Students As Friends Association club, basically a charity organization at this point - because the alternative is hanging out in a crowded house that is not a home. Her foster parents are paycheck parents and her sponsors in the drug trade business.

Even if Emma was not slapped with detention, she would still be in her car. Somewhere. Anywhere. Practically lives out of the thing if the fast food wrappers, toiletries, books and clothes strewn about it are any indication, the detritus of her life, the summation of her existence, and then there's her baby blanket stored in her glove compartment.

She only cleans up the mess if she's meeting with Regina. Regina has a stigma about being in Emma's 'yellow tin can' but you can't Uber a car to have sex in it (can you?) and Regina refuses to have sex in her Mercedes Benz. Doesn't even allow Emma near it.

 _Not good enough to sit in her precious car but good enough to sit on her beautiful face._

Don't even mention having sex in anyone's domicile. Casa de Foster Children is a flat always no. If Emma ventures within twenty feet of Regina's neighborhood, a brigade of the most bored suburban cops in the world would descend upon her in an eye blink.

Attending SHS was supposed to be Emma's ticket to a better life - it's the best high school in Storybrooke - and she is smoking it away. Knows it. Doesn't care that the reasons are dumb. It's what she knows. What is safe.

She once received A's and B's. Took Honors classes too. None of that now. It's silly being tired of what you can do. Of your own potential. Not even afraid of failure. Just tired. Prefers sleep or a state of semi-consciousness over anything else besides being with Regina.

Toking takes away the sting of having to care. Of having to decide. She knows and understands the out of body experience, the slowing down of time. It's safe too. Fun.

Her phone vibrates in her coat pocket. She fishes it out eagerly. After getting high and the free lunches from school - because welfare kids get a free ride at school, even though it's a stigma when you're as old as Emma - getting into another girl's pants is the closest thing to heaven. And Regina is insatiable.

Emma knows it won't last; they come from vastly different worlds.

But Emma knows she can give Regina two things no one else can: the best hydroponic weed in Storybrooke and the best sex of her life. Usually at the same time - shotgunning a joint hit while knuckle deep inside Regina is pure bliss.

Emma swipes past her lockscreen pic of a fully grown EQ plant, quickly inputs her passcode, jumps right into her messages. Regina!

 ** _I want to see you but I have this thing I can't drop._**

Emma hammers out a reply. Doesn't appreciate the cryptic nature of Regina's answer. Define 'thing.' Be blunt. 'Thing' can mean trouble.

 **What is this 'thing' you can't drop?**

 _ **Do I ask you about every single 'thing' you do?**_

 **You could.**

But she doesn't. People take Emma into their home, into their school, into their bed because they can get something from her: welfare check, funds for unprivileged students, best orgasm ever.

Why would her secret lover want her for anything more than secret loving?

 _ **Are you getting addicted to me, Swan?**_

 **Oh, but you can ask me that.**

 ** _Because it's endearing and cute and the truth._**

 **Meet me tonight. You won't regret it. I learned to roll my tongue in that stupid lick the paper to see if you can taste something on it bio lab thingy I chaired with the frosh for extra credit.**

Regina is everything Emma is not: Sexy. Popular. Rich. Smart.

Comes from a good home. A _mansion_ home. Two parents. Two siblings. One perfect last name, Mills, that opens doors for you in Storybrooke. Mostly because the name is on a multitude of buildings: Mills Business Complex, Mills Luxury Apartments Towers, Mills Manor in the botanical garden center to name a few.

And it's funny to Emma that the only reason she's jealous of Regina is because she has an intact family. And the only reason it matters is because Regina doesn't like being around her family. Well, she makes an exception for her twelve year old brother Henry. She adores Henry. From what she's heard about him, if Emma was ever introduced to Regina's kid brother - and she's not holding her breath waiting for that to happen - she's sure she'd like Henry too.

 _ **I can be on the sneak tip 10:30 tonight. Slip Cora some zzzs in her wine.**_

 **I know this will sound dumb coming from me, but I can't condone the use of drugs in your prison escape. Make up a good lie or something.**

 _ **Yes, you're an idiot and a hypocrite. But, if you want to see me, you'll accept my plan. Cora takes them every night anyway. Just speeding up the process. I can scoop some for you. You wanna hit that up?**_

Emma can't imagine what type of problems wealthy people could have that would make them want to check out of their lives early every single night. Then again, Regina checks out of hers often enough using Emma as her drug of choice. Maybe none of it needs to make a drop of sense. So long as it feels good. Regina feels good.

More than good.

Heavenly.

 **Pass. But, can I see you sooner than 10:30?**

The thing that makes their secret rendezvous most divine: Regina's no longer irritated by Emma's presence around school. Before their trysts started three months ago, the mere sight of Emma passing her in the halls - when she lorded over them with her bitch friends Ursula, Maleficent and Cruella - would inspire Regina to dole out a volley of eye rolls, eyebrow arches, lip snarls, shoulder shoves, and on a bad day, an insult like " _watch where you're walking, food stamp_."

 ** _9:45 is the best I can manage. Be the perfect host and bring some EQ. Smoke me up before you sex me up. And do a better job cleaning out your car. I don't want onion ring grease ruining my black Prada shorts. If I smell anything remotely rank in your tin can, I'm out and you miss out. Comprende?_**

Now, all of the vitriol in her snark is in the distinct past. And Regina _flirts_ with Emma. _In school_. Regina brushes up against her ass when Emma is huddled over water fountains, bumps her breasts into Emma's back 'accidentally' during Physics labs, licks her lips in front of Emma at a closer table in the cafeteria than in the past, drops a book in the library and lazily bends over to retrieve it under Emma's stare, and graces Emma with tame teases when she's around her bitch squad like " _watch what you're doing, Swan_."

Emma does watch what she's doing. Makes sure she places her hands in the perfect spots on Regina's body when they're alone, in her car, parked near the forest outlining Storybrooke.

So Emma can see the faces Regina makes when she nips her bottom lip with her teeth, cups her trembling chin in her hand, kisses her softly on her crimson lips.

So Emma can hear Regina exhale a "Swan" into the shell of her ear, the heat of her breath strumming Emma's soul to life, making something, everything fluttery and jittery and lost and found.

(From 'food stamp' to 'Swan' is the best upward mobility movement in the world.)

 **Yes, Queen Bee. See you bright and early. I'll be clean and shiny for you.**

 _ **You better be all those things. And you better demonstrate that tongue roll. ;)**_

 **Only if you're a good girl.**

 ** _You know how good I can be, Swan._ **

Oh, Emma _does_.

She pockets her phone. Detention sleep will allow her to build up stamina for tonight. Regina requires so much of Emma when they meet up. Emma enjoys giving it. Would give more if asked. _Maybe_.

Emma packs up her hot to the touch pipe in a protective case; she didn't smoke much. Stuffs the case and lighter in her jacket pocket. No one is going to pat her down upon entrance into the school - good school equals the most lax security around. Reul wouldn't expect anyone to have the audacity to bring drugs inside her school, especially not during detention, even though most kids in town know SHS is the place to get anything not legal. Where there is money, there is a way.

Emma slaps a hand on her car door handle, and is immediately startled by a loud knock on her window.

 _Oh, shit._

She jumps in her seat. Not because she thinks she's busted by a cop.

Because she recognizes the face staring at her through her window. Someone she wants to see even less than a police officer.

 _Mary Margaret Blanchard_.

The pixie haircut is an unmistakable giveaway even if you're as high as a bird's vagina.

Mary Margaret rocks a crunchy granola personal style because she only wears clothes made from hemp and only wears shoes made from recycled old shoes. Washes her hair with baking soda rinses so it's crunchy too. Today her crunchy hair is held up in a crunchy ponytail; she's wearing a blue unicorn shirt fashioned from hemp and made to look like a 1980s Lisa Frank print because Mary Margaret tries too hard to be retro cool. Her loose brown cargo pants that look like they were sewn by a blind woman and are hemp-made too. So is the worn out brown satchel she totes in her hand. Joy.

The girl protests against everything. Champions every en vogue cause. Thinks she knows what real suffering is but has never left the comforts of suburban Storybrooke or her stable home. Probably here to protest Emma having fun in her own damn car.

So wannabe rebel Mary Margaret Blanchard knocking at her window. Can't be a rebel with that name. Emma calls her Mary B.

Mary B knocks on the window again. Motions for Emma to roll down her window.

Emma knits her eyebrows at her and then giggles.

Mary B knocks on her window again.

Emma's so still and so dead-eyed it's like she's been preserved through time in amber.

The knocking becomes incessant because, of course, Mary B can see Emma in her car not moving.

Can see Emma laughing hysterically.

Can see Emma failing at grabbing her door knob properly. Her hand sloppily rubbing all around it but unable to grip it.

Can see Emma lean forward in a laughing fit and bang her head against her car horn. BAAAAAAAAAA!

Emma jolts upright and tight from the noise. Laughs again.

 _(Oh, I'm feeling the EQ now...)_

A hard knock on the window and Emma hops in her seat. Grabs a firm hold on her senses, and opens the door.

Mary B sniffs the air blasting out of Emma's car. Definitely smells the magnificent EQ cloud emanating from it and Emma. Oddly, Mary B doesn't pass any noticeable visual judgments but, unsurprisingly to all who know her, doesn't hold back her tongue. Never holds back her tongue.

"Are you high, Emma?"

Emma quirks an eyebrow at her - one Regina would be proud to flash at her; Regina abhors Mary B. Emma also sighs, like contemplating Mary B's obtuseness was the most painful thing on Earth to endure. Being high doesn't ease the task.

"Are you popping up randomly in parking lots now?" Emma asks, chuckling and waving her hand in front of her face. Marvels at the mind trick of seeing six hands blurred together.

"You can't go to detention high."

Emma sobers herself up quickly. So quickly her body lurches forward and Mary B takes a step back as if peering at a zombie reanimating and preparing herself to jet away to safety.

"How do you know I'm going to detention, period?"

"I called your house."

 _Not my house, but still..._ "Why the hell would you do that?"

"I wanted to talk to you, Emma," Mary B rolls her eyes. It's an obvious answer.

"Why the hell would you do that?"

Emma doesn't hate Mary B, but they aren't friends. Different social circles is the real reason, if Emma were being perfectly honest. That and Mary B tends to be grating.

"Um..." Mary B says sheepishly, nervously rolling her lips between her fingers.

Emma feels a laugh building up. Rocking her lungs. "Um, what?"

"I feel embarrassed asking you."

"Spill the free trade coffee beans already."

"Look, I just heard, you know, you can get... things for people."

"There is only one thing I can get for _people_."

"Exactly."

"You wearing a wire?" Emma actually juts her hand out. Pokes Mary B in her chest. Worst pat down ever.

"Emma," Mary B starts as she gently swats Emma's finger away, "I'm not the man. I fight the man. I just, you know, want to know if you can get some for-"

"A friend."

"Yes."

Emma narrows her eyes and smiles. "Named Mary Margaret Blanchard."

"Look, if you don't-"

"How much do you need?"

"What do people usually get?"

"High, hopefully," Emma chuckles.

Mary B sighs. Emma's sense of humor is beyond juvenile, especially when she's high. "I don't know. It's my first time. What's the standard for two people?

"Oh... oh...OH!" Emma flashes a huge grin, her red-tinged eyes lightly up impossibly bright. That fog clogged brain of hers still able to spark an epiphany, "You want to smoke up David Nolan."

Mary B's face grows tomato red as she scowls. "No, I do not!"

Emma is almost concerned. Then she smiles. "Me thinks you doth protest too quickly."

"Look, can you get it or not?"

"I don't smoke all of my supply, if that's what you're asking."

"I'm asking if you can get it or not."

"Dumb question considering you know I can or you wouldn't be here killing my high."

"Emma, please just tell me yes or no. I don't have a lot of time."

"Got it. All business. No chit-chat. A dime bag outta do it."

"It only costs a dime?"

Emma face-palms. Takes a long deep breath. She'll need to puff again during a bathroom break because Mary B is siphoning off the effects of EQ and Emma didn't smoke nearly enough to compensate for her presence.

Emma scans the area around them. Fishes a tiny Ziploc bag from her jacket pocket. Hands it to Mary B. "A free sample fit for two. Next time-," Emma takes note of Mary B shaking her head, "If there's a next time, then it's ten dollars, okay?"

Mary B nods her head. "It's 6:50. We should go in."

"We?"

"I have detention too."

Emma's eyes fly open painfully wide with shock. "For what?"

"Can you keep secret?" Mary B asks, smirking.

"Yeah," Emma replies, folding her hands across her chest. This might be good.

"Well, good for you," Mary B quips as she walks toward the Main Hall.

Emma slams her car door shut. Trails after her.

Emma has never been more interested in Mary Margaret Blanchard.

Secrets are Emma's currency.

* * *

 _Next up: Robin and Mary Margaret_


	5. Robin Hood

**ROBIN HOOD**

It's 5:15 am Saturday morning.

Despite operating only on four hours of sleep with detention on the horizon in exactly two hours, eighteen year old Robin Hood is where he always is that early in the morning: sitting ramrod-straight next to his fifteen year-old equally weary younger brother Roland on a black leather couch in their family's state-of-the-art-and-blessedly-air conditioned basement having his ass handed to him by their tyrannical father.

A scenario involving the Hood boys not enduring yet another of their father's torturous pedagogic tirades would mean the seventh seal of the Apocalypse just cracked open.

Robin's entire face colors in discomfort as his father blazes on because his old man is a jerk-ass dressed in weathered wrestling gear, which, unfortunately, hugs his groin area so tightly his baby makers resemble skin boils on the brink of bursting.

 _Arrrgh, not this shit again..._

"-Right there is where the momentum of the match flipped in the favor of that fucking beanstalk," their bullet-chinned silverback gorilla of a father lectures sternly, almost imperceptibly shifting on his left foot as he grinds out his verbal recrimination while pointing to a paused video image on a 65-inch smart flat screen tv. The video showcases Robin's many shortcomings as documented by his father. This time Robin's pinned to a blue foam mat by a guy who assuredly appears tall enough to touch the sky.

Robin notes his father's subtle movement with an exasperated mental sigh; the behavioral tic means his old man is seconds away from insulting him with the exacting precision of an expertly trained sharpshooter.

"Now Roland..." their father says, clapping his meaty hands dramatically to monopolize the youngest Hood male's attention before he thunders along, "...tell me the easily avoidable mistakes Robin made that turned him into the biggest fucking loser at the most important fucking invitational of the year."

The cool breaths Robin inhales through his mouth and nostrils increase the speed and intensity of the anxiety skittering up his spine.

Third place in a statewide varsity tourney is hardly 'biggest fucking loser' territory, but the oldest male Hood in the basement doesn't give one iota about anything past first place. He doesn't allow Olympic medal ceremonies to fool the two boys who carry his last name and his genes.

First place entitles you to respect and admiration.

Anything else signifies you are not good enough.

That you actually _proved_ you aren't good enough.

And so, Mr. Hood supplies his sons with daily reminders of how they're not allowed to mess up. It's tediously often in the form of a yell or a slap, and both are infinitely preferable to his belt. Their father maintains a collection of belts that are no less than half an inch in thickness, which leave welt marks the size of mountains on the skin.

His father sighs audibly. For the life of the brutish man, he can't comprehend why Robin doesn't feel humiliated enough on the school mat when he loses to lesser opponents.

Robin only feels humiliated on the landscape of his home at the hands of his own father.

Roland, who's fighting his sleep so valiantly he dozes off for only a split second, jolts awake when their father slaps him across the bridge of his nose and the bottom half of his forehead, hard.

Their father latches his eyes onto Robin's face like a tapeworm rooting into an intestinal wall, daring his eldest son to verbalize any disapproval.

Robin most certainly does not dare to.

Instead, his shoulders flinch as his ocean blues narrow at the same time Roland's eyes do, as if he felt Roland's pain the moment the slap reverberated like a gunshot throughout the basement.

Roland scrunches his face to absorb the pain but does not bring a hand to his head like a regular teen.

The Hood boys are not _regular_ teens.

(No, this early in the day, regular teens are in their beds either making memories with slick wet bodies pressed against each other or reliving such memories in their dreams with rested limbs lazing under cool sheets.)

Robin harbors no illusions of avoiding a slap of his own - or _worse_ \- from connecting with some vulnerable part of his body in the future. His father is the epitome of predictable. Older every year like nature intended but somehow unnaturally stronger like a salmon swimming upstream against the powerful currents of time.

But mostly Robin just doesn't want to be himself anymore.

And that's funny because every guy at Storybrooke High would give his left nut to be him.

Robin makes certain not to show any signs of fraternity with his younger brother. Keeps his head low as Roland sucks in air and suppresses any further noises that would spotlight the pain he surely feels.

The Hood boys do not cry.

Real men _never_ cry.

And so, at this ungodly early hour, Robin and Roland are clad in their blue & white testicle-twisting Storybrooke High wrestler's singlets looking comically like two bumps in an edamame bean pod.

This cross examination in the figurative courtroom of their household, where their father pits brother against brother in the trial of his fanatical adherence to the cult of sports, is a commonplace routine. Even so, Robin consistently makes the same mistakes during matches - despite both his coach and his father barking reminders to him from their seats on the sidelines - that Roland doesn't need to think about the answer.

"Robin dropped his head. Executed poor hand control, sir," Roland replies under a yarn he quickly stifles mid-release.

Robin parroted his brother's words in his mind. _Dropped my head and executed poor hand control._ Things he never did when he captained the archery team his freshman year to a championship win his father never acknowledges despite the gigantic trophy in Robin's room chronicling the accomplishment.

Archery is the only sport that makes sense to Robin.

Only, it's not a sport to his father.

If Robin's not body checking another person, it's just a _hobby_.

How dare Robin or Roland entertain any other options!

"He didn't execute a goddamn thing with his legs or his feet," his father snaps, miming a choke-hold around what can only be presumed to be an approximation of Robin's neck vis-a-vis imaginary proxy.

The Hood sons survive the crucible of these harangues by being hard of backbone and mind. Otherwise, they hauled themselves up the basement stairs sorer than the human language has sufficient words to express.

Their father forces them to practice until wrestling moves are the only things their bodies know and understand. They practice until he's certain their heads are up, their hands are in the proper position, and their knees are off the mat.

They must follow through to become behemoths who tackle obstacles with unapologetic force.

Their house is not a home.

It is a gladiatorial ludus.

Roland flashes Robin a quick sympathetic look. Instantly regrets it.

Their father shakes his head in disapproval of the camaraderie. "Don't coddle the bastard. This is not rocket science. We do this every damn day. You wanna be losers, do that bullshit on the streets. In my house, you are winners or you are _nothin_ g."

 _WIN! WIN! WIN!_

Robin bites the inside corners of his mouth. Desperately wants to remind his father that he's sporting a fifteen match undefeated run with eight of them pin wins. Not to mention he's the most winningest wrestler in his weight class of 150 pounds in all of Maine.

Robin earned his varsity letter with blood, sweat, tears, and piss.

His taskmaster father never qualified for any Olympic sports teams back in his day but Robin did in archery three years ago. He didn't get offered a single wrestling scholarship unlike Robin who has sixteen offers on the table. He didn't go to college whereas Robin will choose from a selection pool that includes the illustrious Storybrooke University as well as two impressive Ivies, Dartmouth and Brown.

No, the damn guy plateaued when he was on the junior varsity team, only making varsity his senior year because Robin's paternal grandfather - a true wrestling legend - scared the coach shitless.

Hood men tend to be legendary dickheads.

Robin knows he's carrying on the family tradition.

Sharing the wealth of his pain.

After all, he chooses to shunt worries and weakness from his body by fist pounding the scrawniest, goofiest, most awkward and most self-conscious guy at school who tries desperately to remain invisible but sticks out like a cat in a goldfish bowl.

Archie Hopper.

At this point, it's second nature to force the weak geek to toe the line or choke on it. And Archie chokes every single time. Robin's doing the fool a favor by pointing out how much he doesn't have the mettle to make it in the real world.

 _Right?_

 _Right..._

Robin also knows all the softness his brother still displays will be beaten out of the younger Hood soon enough. The process will be condoned by their mother, a beauty queen with brains - if you don't fault her for prioritizing an asshole who gives her earth-shattering orgasms (the Hood boys wear earplugs to sleep on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday nights for a reason) over an actual decent man capable of having a sliver of an intelligent thought - because she expects results too. After all, her family amasses wealth through hard work and perseverance. If her husband must slap her sons to propel them to greatness - without causing any _lasting_ physical damage - then so be it. Psychosis can be hammered out by a pill-prescribing psychiatrist in the future.

Success in the areas they deem paramount is all that matters to Robin's parental units.

Robin's father has the distinction of owning five luxury foreign car dealerships due to his father-in-law bestowing them upon him so his daughter and his grandsons aren't saddled with a washed up high school athlete for a head of household.

Which is what his father is, anyway.

So yeah, Robin's not surprised when his father motions for him to join him on the wrestling mat in the center of their basement by ungracefully jutting his elbow toward Robin's nose.

He's so, _so_ tired of hearing the same script while practicing every morning:

 _"Why is your head still down?" His father chastises through gritted teeth._

 _"My head's all the way up," Robin demurs, jutting his head up as far as the laws of physics and his body's biology allows._

 _"It's all the way up when I say it's all the way up."_

 _"Right."_

 _"Get your fucking head up, you knuckleheaded nutsack!"_

 _"It's up."_

 _"Bottom position. And you better not let me hit you with a three quarters nelson. You got two opponents when you hit the mat. Me and your fear. You better beat both enemies, boy."_

And he's so, _so_ tired of hearing the same script while practicing before bed:

 _"How many rounds of suicides did you complete?" His father prods through gritted teeth._

 _"Thirty," Robin proffers with bated breath._

 _"The others?"_

 _"Thirty five jumping jacks. Twenty five push ups. Twenty-five sit ups. Ten minute plank. Thirty minute jump rope."_

 _"Do it again."_

 _"Which part?"_

 _"All of it."_

Robin should be an immovable mountain; he's logged hundreds of hours of jumping, running, and lifting. Practicing take downs, reversals, and pins. Dieting to hit and maintain his designated weight class.

But at this inhumane hour this morning, he's all noodle arms and paper mache legs.

"On your feet..." his father commands, strapping the chin rest of his old wrestler's headgear to his giant old head. He adds the kicker both Robin and Roland expect to hear at some point in their misadventures with him, "... _girls_."

Robin stiffens at his father's taunts but remains tight-lipped, evading the trap of becoming tangled in the slipstream of his father's goading anger and finding himself on the receiving end of a deadly body check from a hairy-knuckled fist.

All of Robin's movements are automatic yet not sluggish; he's not surprised his arms quickly bend to slip his headgear over his head and lock his chin rest into place. He tucks away a few strands of light brown hair that threaten to block his vision, all the while not astonished when his mother's voice floats from the periphery of his mind to implore him to cut his lion's mane lest he looks the part of a social deviant.

He almost laughs; detention means he's a delinquent now and his hair finally matches his true designation.

Not to mention the tattoo he plans procure the day he graduates.

Marian will love it.

Her angelic caramel face wafts into the forefront of his mind from the corner of his mind that pushes for him to be decent because it knows being an asshole is wrong. Is lonely. Is pain. Marian is his anchor to senility and serenity. His _sanctuary_. She's smart, pretty, altruistic, dedicated, and loyal. When he's in her presence, basking in the glow of her halo, he's not a Hood man.

He's the man he should be at all times.

A man who'd be friends with Archie like he was in the third grade instead of his tormentor like he is now.

As Roland stands on the sidelines and Robin approaches the mat, their father immediately crouches into a powerful stance; he's an ever-ready spider perched at the center of a sticky web, teeter-tottering on the precipice of predatory bliss with his prey locked in his crosshairs.

His father lunges forward like a vicious panther, drops his right knee to the mat for a split second before popping up unexpectedly to thrust the weight of his left side under the right side of Robin's torso in an attempt to catapult him, but Robin evades the move with a last second shuffle of his feet.

Strafing to the right, Robin tamps down the thunderous anger inside him that seeks out his father's face, preventing it from congealing into something deadly that could coruscate around him like an otherworldly malignant power.

Robin knows his dad will leg ride him. So, he must elevate his hips, catch one of his father's legs coming in, hook his father's head, and slam him to the mat.

Robin just needs to be quick.

But he's not.

Because he can't focus.

Because thinks of _her_.

Of pouty lips of red, dancing irises of melted chocolate, sun-kissed skin of light honey.

Of an ass that can fill his hands perfectly as if sculpted by Michelangelo and blessed by the gods.

Of a captivating and alluring Regina Mills.

He shouldn't think of any girl except Marian - they've been together for three years and he's known her since the second grade. They're practically sandbox soulmates. Regina is at best a fantasy and at worst an obsession; she talks to him often but it's never about anything substantial.

Besides, he can't possibly think of either of girl as being more important than his college plans. Wrestling is his lottery ticket to a great future away from Storybrooke - away from his father.

He can't throw away a winning ticket.

He will not end up a wash out stuck in Storybrooke living off the teat of his wife's family like his father.

In the split second Robin spends pondering his fate, his father connects under his rib cage, grabs his arm and flips him over onto his ass, violently. Robin's back and glutes are immediately on fire from the friction and force the impact.

"Where the hell is your head?" His old man bellows, his eyes homing missiles attacking Robin's thick skull. "Focus on my every move like I'm two big jiggly tits, you hear me, boy?"

"I hear you, sir," Robin answers through clenched teeth.

His father growls. "You had better."

Robin toggles his head upward, centering his thoughts as he begins to rise off the mat.

Roland staves off another yarn by shaking his whole body, lifting and planting his feet one after the other to rattle the tiredness from his body. He knows once Robin is pinned to the mat - _as he always is_ \- he's up next.

The second Robin pops back onto his feet, his father blindsides him with an elbow to the solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs, denying him the ability to reset and recoil into a stronger position. The veins on his father's arms look like winding rattlesnakes ready to strike, and his grip on Robin's arms, as he painfully pins them behind Robin's back, tightens like a torture chamber vise.

"You call this _hearing_ me?" His father jeers to the side of Robin's face.

Robin hisses as he struggles within his father's hold. He plants his feet firmly but can't execute a reversal.

He can't take in adequate air and starts coughing.

 _Definitely the wrong move._

"You gonna cry little boy?" His father demands with disgust corralling his features into a scrunched mask of fury. "You gonna quit?"

Robin can sense his old man shaking his head and curling a lip in disappointment as the elder wrestler forcibly pushes Robin away, releasing his arms at the last minute. He pants to fill his lungs with much needed air and rotates his shoulders to dampen the pain burning his joints.

"You're a goddamn disgrace," his father asserts with a sadistic smile painting his face. "Roland can wiggle free from that hold and he's thirty pounds lighter than you. You only win matches because your opponents are even bigger losers than you. And you got fucking detention because you got caught with your head in the clouds by that sanctimonious fuckwit Reul just like you did on this mat, you _pansy_."

It's a simple word, but it ricochets around Robin's mind, ripping apart brain matter and rational thoughts, making him seethe with an anger so fierce his eyes darken to an inky black and his face flushes a beet red, as if he were holding in a breath past the point of consciousness.

With his lungs and arms arching, liquid fire coursing through his veins, his breaths lumps of lead, and his throat scratchy and sore as if he swallowed shards of glass, Robin balls his hands into fists at his sides.

He has never wanted to throttle the ever-loving shit out of anyone more than he does his father.

Except maybe himself.

* * *

 _Next Up: Mary Margaret then Killian Jones, David Nolan, Regina Mills and the 1st Hour of Detention_

 ** _Please share your thoughts and suggestions in comments/reviews._**

 ** _Your feedback helps me with my writing and gives readers eye candy! : )_**


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